The kitchen is a mess, mugs and plates piled up in the sink. A half eaten block of cheese stands on the counter uncovered. There are bite marks in it, where Dad didn’t even bother slicing it up before he ate. The floor and table around his chair are covered in crumbs and bits of wrappers and there’s a loaf of bread going hard on the countertop. Things have definitely changed around here.

At least that means there’s a chance the note is still here somewhere. I check the drawers in the dresser and the units. No sign. Though I’m not really sure what it is I’m looking for. A piece of paper? Was it written on a card? I should have asked Bert what he saw but I’m not going back there now.

After exhausting the kitchen, I’m about to turn my attention to the hallway when I see a piece of paper sticking out from under a half dead plant sitting on a little shelf by the kitchen door. Pulling a chair from under the table, I step up and slip the piece of paper from under the pot. My mouth is dry, stomach turning. I turn it over and read Remember to take your memory tablets.

Mom’s handwriting. This note hung on the refrigerator door when she was first diagnosed and able to medicate herself. Taking a deep breath, I start my still heart beating again. As I get down from the chair I hear a key in the front door, so I push the chair back into place by the table and sit on it.

Dad startles when he sees me.

‘Jesus, Becca, you frightened the life out of me.’

‘Didn’t you see my car outside?’

‘No, I didn’t. I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘But it’s Sunday, Dad. Where’s Danny and Joanna?’

‘They’re not coming today. Didn’t Danny text you? He was supposed to text you.’

Dad crosses to the refrigerator and stocks it with the beers he takes from the brown bag in his hand.

‘Dad?’

‘Yeah?’ he says, twisting the cap off a bottle of beer and lifting it to his lips.

‘I’m looking for a note that was left here for me. Have you seen it?’

‘A note?’

‘A friend of mine left it here with her number for me to call her.’

‘I didn’t see any note,’ he says. ‘When was that?’

‘Last week.’

‘How do you know someone left you a note if you didn’t get a note?’ he says, turning to face me.

‘Bert saw her leave it in the mailbox.’

‘Bert.’ He swigs some more beer. ‘That old man is half blind. How would he know what he saw?’

‘She spoke to him.’

With the bottle to his lips he stops drinking and gazes at the wall for what seems like an age.